


untiled 315 (laisse les morts en paix)

by ceeturnalia (traveller)



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Unfinished, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 05:45:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11373801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia
Summary: To whomever comes to hold these papers:The endeavor of creating this record was not undertaken lightly, and was indeed entrusted to me by their original collector, who I was blessed to call friend and brother for many years. That he kept these pages back from us, his dearest companions, till nigh on the end of his life says something, I believe, about the solemn regard for which he held his position as the keeper of this tale.





	untiled 315 (laisse les morts en paix)

**Author's Note:**

> **NB:** Claiming WIP amnesty; it is unfinished and unlikely to ever be finished. 
> 
> It is, however, a complete _thought,_ —even if the thoughts that followed were left unspoken— and if it pleases you, dear Reader, then I too am pleased.

> **To whomever comes to hold these papers:**
> 
> **The endeavor of creating this record was not undertaken lightly, and was indeed entrusted to me by their original collector, who I was blessed to call friend and brother for many years. That he kept these pages back from us, his dearest companions, till nigh on the end of his life says something, I believe, about the solemn regard for which he held his position as the keeper of this tale.**
> 
> **I have arranged the pages in such a way as I believe offers most clarity to the reader, which has in certain parts necessitated copying and rearranging sections from the larger manuscript. It was also necessary to reconstruct the narrative where damage to the leaves made them impossible to read. I have refrained as much as possible from adding comments of my own, however at times further explication was necessary. As the last — so far as I know, God willing! — living witness to these events, I trust the reader will accept my judgment.**
> 
> **In hope of Heaven,**  
>  **Chev. René d'Herblay**  
>  **— at Paris, January 12, 1677**

  

_**April 11, 165—** _

My dear d'Artagnan, 

You have my most sincere apologies for the delay in responding to your last letter — so delayed that you saw need to write again, and inquire after my health. I am quite well. Nor have you angered me with your request — please put such fears out of your mind. ~~It is merely the question you asked~~

~~What you asked of me~~

D'Artagnan, I have been more than happy to supplement with my own your recollections of our many adventures, and I have enjoyed the drafts of your memoir which you have forwarded for my review. Some of the stories, though their stakes at the time were dire, are even comical from this comfortable distance. But not that one. I cannot revisit that affair. Please, in the name of our long friendship, do not ask it of me again. 

Yours faithfully,  
A. 

  

_**April 14, 165—** _

_My dear friend,_ think no more on the matter. I am only sorry to have upset you with my thoughtless request. I did not consider that the matter might still cause you pain after all this time — that fault is mine. I may yet attempt to reconstruct my version of events, or I may leave it out all together. Either way, I shall involve you no more. Please accept my most heartfelt apology. _Yrs Chs. d'Artgn._

  

**[from the unpublished MS of Charles d'Artagnan]**

_— the strangest chapter of my service occurred in the spring of 163—, almost a year after the conclusion of the matter of the Comte de Rochefort's treason. All had been quiet for many months, and Constance and myself were still enjoying our life as new bride and groom. The length of our honeymoon was remarked on by many, but after all the trials we suffered to reach that place, we felt that to do anything but enjoy every moment of our happiness would be to squander the greatest gift of our lives._

_There was nothing in the assignment—as had so often been the case!—that suggested any difficulties to come. The Countess of B—, a distant relative of His Majesty's mother, was coming to Paris to spend the summer. As she had never visited the city before, we were asked to supplement her personal guard. We were told that her guard were stout fighters and loyal to the death, but spoke no French and did not understand our customs, so, she wrote to His Majesty, assistance would be needed to prevent any misunderstandings with the Parisian population._

_Minister Tréville was sceptical of the request at first, having the memory of the affair of the False Princess still fairly close to mind, even a year later. The King assured Tréville that he would know the Countess, despite having never met her, and explained that the Countess' late lady mother had visited the court when the King was a small boy. If, he told us, she resembled her mother even a fraction, he would know her face — such a face, he told us with a nervous laugh, one never forgets!_

  

_**April 20, 165—** _

_My dear d'Artagnan,_

Despite my fondest wish being to never allow even my most idle thought to stray to the memory of that summer, since your letters I have thought of nothing else. No, do not rush to apology — you could not have known. Indeed, I did not suspect myself that there remained such a hold on my mind. I have so carefully kept recollection at bay all these years, perhaps the poison has built up like pus behind a scab. Perhaps only in breaking it open and purging the ill may it be cured. 

So I sit to this task, and will give you the most faithful account I can. There were, as you undoubtedly recall, a number of incidents which occurred outside the observance of any other parties other than the countess and myself. These I can say without reservation I will be able to describe in fine detail, for it is those moments I find myself reliving with fearful clarity.

I will send this in the morning — the rest to follow. 

Yours,  
A. 

  

**[from the MS of Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fére]**

For days before her arrival the city had been battered by storms. Porthos joked that he felt as though we were at sea. The winds were high and strong, and blew the rain straight into one's face no matter how low you pulled your hat. It was a shock to us all, I think, when the day dawned warm and dry. We reported to the garrison as usual, and then to the palace for our assignment. 

I was at one time accustomed to comfort, and by then had spent several years at court in service. I thought perhaps I had seen the height of luxury, but the coach which arrived that day made even the King's mouth drop open. Do you remember it, d'Artagnan? Massive and black where it wasn't gilded, drawn by a team of four black stallions with gilded harness. Both the carriage and the horses were spotless, even though the roads must've been knee-high with mud for at least thirty leagues around. Such details come back to me now. The mind is inclined, I believe, to accept the unusual so as not to unsettle itself. In the quiet reexamination after the fact, we wonder why we did not notice, but of course we have noticed. We have noticed, and taken it in; it is the mind which lies to us, tells us that all is well, when nothing could be further from the truth. 

And thus, she arrived. 

Three men were on the coach — one on the roof, sitting cross-legged with his musket across his knees; one at the rear, and one driving. They were dressed alike in baggy black trousers with long woolen coats to match, all trimmed with gold buttons and embroidery, and slit up the sides like our riding cloaks. Their boots were stout and well-heeled, and sabers hung from their belts. Their hats were fur-trimmed and tall, and each man wore a long, drooping moustache, braided at the tips. 

The man from the roof and the man from the rear leapt down at once when the carriage halted before our assembly. One rapped on the door and made what seemed to be an inquiry of the occupant; receiving what must have been an affirmative reply, he threw the door open and lowered the step. 

First out the door came one, then another — two enormous dogs, snow white, wearing wide leather collars studded with brass spikes. At this the King laughed out loud, and clapped his hands, remarking to Tréville that the Countess's mother had brought such a dog with her to court when he was a boy, and how he had played with it. These did not appear the sort of dogs that a child would play with. Remember how they stalked in a circle around the coach, and then around us, tongues lolling in the heat? Remember how they returned then to their mistress' door and sat, at attention, one on either side? Porthos said something to Aramis that I could not hear, but both their hands lighted on their pistols, and I knew they wondered the same as I — how tame these animals might be, or rather, might not be. 

The Countess emerged then — it could have been none other. She was dressed not unlike her guards, in a long coat, red where theirs were black, and all over thick with gold embroidery. Her skirts too were heavy with decoration — even the veil over her hair was embellished, and held in place by a circlet fairly dripping with gold. Her hands were heavy with jewels such as I have never seen outside the royal treasury. One expected her to jingle, like a purse, when she moved, but — Perhaps you will recall. When she moved she made no sound at all, not even to the swish of her skirts against the cobbles. Do you remember that, d'Artagnan? Again, these things prey on my mind now as they did not then. But no matter. 

The two guards flanked her as she put her foot to the coach step, taking her by the elbows and lifting her directly down to the courtyard stones. She stood there a moment, framed by her soldiers and her dogs, like a painting. Then she stepped toward us, toward the King, and drew back her veil.

> **_Much of the rest of this description was lost in damage to the original pages. Here I have returned to d'Artagnan's manuscript to complete the scene. - RH_**

_The Countess was petite, and seemed slight of frame, but carried herself with the bearing of a much more robust woman. She seemed the sort of woman who was used to people moving out of her way when she walked. And beautiful! It was almost frightening, how beautiful. She unveiled her face and the King exclaimed out loud, « Cousin! I had believed as a child there could be no woman more beautiful than your lady mother, but here I am proved mistaken! How can it be that you are so very like her — exactly like her! And yet somehow more lovely? As a diamond in the midst of my humble court._

_The Countess laughed, and took the King's hands and kissed his cheeks._

_—You flatter me, Your Majesty, she said. But your court already has a jewel beyond price »._

_She had spoken in French, accented strangely with the tongue of her land, but here she turned to Her Majesty the Queen and embraced her like a sister, speaking to her in Spanish. Whatever she said, the Queen smiled at it with great sincerity, and returned the embrace. They spoke for a few moments longer, speaking of the Dauphin — that word I understood! — but what else, I cannot say._

_At last she turned to us. Tréville greeted Her Ladyship and explained that we were soldiers of the King's Musketeers, that Athos was his captain and we were his finest men, entrusted with protecting the royal family and, as such, that we should be considered at her disposal during her visit. She thanked him, and said that she would like the Captain to accompany her immediately to the lodgings she was taking for the season._

_His Majesty seemed perplexed that the Countess did not intend to stay at the Louvre, and tried to persuade her to remain, but to no avail._

_« I am a stranger, for all that we may be kin, she replied to him, pressing his hands. And my ways may seem strange to you, for I am accustomed to doing as I please. But never fear, cousin, that I should not visit your home often »._

_It was clear that Her Ladyship wished to say no more. She drew her veil again, and Athos offered his arm. They climbed into the coach, and shortly were away._

  

**[from the MS of Olivier d'Athos, Comte de la Fére]**

Her lips were red behind the gold of her veil when she spoke. « Captain. May I call you Athos ? »

The interior of the coach was heavy with the smell of incense and perfume, like a church at Eastertide. Her seat opposite me was wide and deep, covered in velvet, and piled high with cushions and furs—it was large enough that one of the dogs could lie easily beside her, and she stretched out at her ease, petting it. The other lay across the floor at my feet. My own seat was just as sizeable, and soft as a feather pillow. Shades were pulled over the windows, letting in just enough light to see by. 

Again, d'Artagnan, I did not notice the things I should have. She gave no instructions to her men — how did they know where to go? If they were so unfamiliar with Paris, and with our language, how did they make their way? And the coach itself. It swayed as gently as an infant's cradle, not once shaking or rattling or jouncing its occupants on our rough Parisian streets. Am I to believe that her driver was so skilled that wheel never touched a stone or pothole? Surely not. But the oddness of the journey itself was only a brush in my mind, the lightest touch of a cobweb almost immediately blown away. All my attention was held by the woman opposite me. 

« Captain ? » she repeated, and raised her veil again.

Remember her beauty, there at the steps of the Louvre, shining under the sun? In the dusky light inside the coach her face seemed lit from within, glowing like the moon. I could not look away. Perhaps it was the heat of her dark eyes, burning into mine; I felt myself flush like a schoolboy when I answered that she could call me as she liked. She smiled. 

« My people call me Lady C—, she said, stretching with animal languor before sitting up to extend her hand to me. You may call me Caliphië ».

I do not know, I still do not know, what possessed me in that moment. I know that her voice was low and confiding, as one would speak to an intimate friend. I know that I was overcome with a powerful sadness — no. I must name it for what it was. Loneliness, d'Artagnan. I felt so desperately, horribly alone, ~~and taking her hand felt~~ and when I took her hand, it was as though I were a dry riverbed, and she were the long-awaited rain. Perhaps it was merely that

> **Here several lines were scratched out, beyond the point of legibility, tearing the page.**

It would not be true to say that no woman had reached out to me in my years of solitude, or that I did not accept their overtures, albeit on the very rarest occasion. But in the main I controlled my desires, for they were never stronger than my will. Only in the case of. You know of whom. _You know._ And knowing so, you will appreciate like no other could when I admit to you that Caliphië ~~made me~~ I wanted her more than anything, that I was drowning in it. Five minutes' acquaintance, ten at the most. I wish I could say I was drunk, but I felt wholly clear: that I must touch her, that I must kiss her, that I must _have_ her. That my desire was returned was in no doubt: she lifted our joined hands to her lips, and pressed a kiss to my thumb. 

Never in my life— I had her there, in the carriage—The dogs there on the floor— her skirts pushed up—the silk crumpled and stained with our sweat and— Please! My friend, my brother, please understand that I tell you these things not as a braggart over his conquests, nor to titillate with sordid detail! I tell you because to know— to understand— all that followed. You must hear all to understand all. 

After. We reclothed ourselves as best we could, still kissing and touching like young lovers. I wanted to feel embarrassed, my mind perhaps did, at a great distance, feel shocked, but when I murmured to her an apology for behaving so ill, she laughed and kissed my mouth. 

« I will find a use for your honor, she said, brushing her fingers over my brow. But for now, I desire only your passion ».

 

**[Letter from Lady C— to Queen Anne, found in Her Majesty's papers following her death]**

**_Translated from Spanish by me. - RH_**

Dear Sister, 

Forgive me for declining your invitation to the palace today, for I am still weary with travel and wish to rest at least another day before climbing into another carriage! 

I write also to beg a favor, dear Anne. I could not bring any of my maids on this journey, and have been hopeless without them. Would you please select from your own ladies, two or three girls of good breeding, and send them to me? I trust your judgment and taste. Captain Athos may escort them to my lodgings. 

I will see you and your lovely son soon.  
C 

**Author's Note:**

> Lady Calinica or Kalinikia is a historical figure — Vlad III Dracul's great-grandmother. She may have been born in 14th century Constantinople under the name Caliphië. 
> 
> Working title from the ballad "Lenore" by Gottfried August Bürger, translated into French by Gérard de Nerval, 1877. 
> 
> "Lenore" is now almost exclusively famous for providing Bram Stoker with the line _die Todten reiten schnell_ , translated into English as: _the dead travel fast._


End file.
